phones. When they executed a search warrant, you were assigned the spot the bad guy was least likely to exit through.
Being asked to be a liaison to the Converses was a sign that someone in the Bureau wanted her to go further up the ladder. The thing was—Nic wasn’t sure she wanted to go. Not when Makayla was so young and she saw her so little as it was. The next step would be being named a field supervisor, but the Bureau had recently gotten serious about its five and out policy. Supervisors at a field office could only be there for five years before they were required to take an assignment at headquarters. If they didn’t, they had to step back down in rank or quit. There was no way Nic would take Makayla to DC. She couldn’t afford private schools, not on what the FBI paid, and she would never put her daughter in public school there.
As a black woman in the Bureau, Nic was in a double minority. They liked to trot her out as an example, but everything she did was also scrutinized. Nic’s achievements didn’t seem to add up as fast as a guy’s. At the same time, she sometimes thought that if she made a mistake, it would be broadcast on a loudspeaker all over the office.
Sometimes it felt like she had to be twice as good as a man to even compete—like Ginger Rogers, who had done everything Fred Astaire had, only backward and in high heels. Take the 2.5-minute shooting drills. Agents had to shoot while lying prone, from behind barricades, on their knees, reloading, switching hands, moving ever closer to the target. They were expected to get a score of 80, which meant they had to put 80 percent of their bullets in the kill zone.
Nicole’s last score had been a 97.
She pulled up to the Converses’ house. Now there were four camera crews out front. She parked in the narrow driveway behind Valerie’s red Volvo station wagon—she didn’t see Wayne’s blue BMW sedan—and ignored the shouted questions as she went up the walk.
Nic was here to interview Whitney before Valerie drove her to school. At first she had thought it was strange that the Converses wanted Whitney to continue attending her middle school, even if they were now driving her instead of having her take the bus. In the last day, though, Nic had begun to see the wisdom of it. If she stayed home, Whitney would be reminded of her sister’s absence every second. She would probably over-hear speculation that would crush whatever innocent conceptions she still harbored about the world and the way it worked. These hours spent at school might be her last chance to still be a child.
Valerie answered Nic’s knock. Each day, her face looked more haggard. “Wayne’s out with the searchers,” she said. “He can’t take sitting at home.” She called upstairs. “Whitney! The lady from the FBI is here to talk to you.”
Whitney bounced down the stairs. She was in that awkward stage of adolescence, springy and skinny, her limbs like rubber bands. Her hair was as dark as her sister’s was blonde. Wasn’t there a fairy tale about two sisters, one dark and one fair? Snow White and Rose Red, maybe that was it.
Valerie led them into the living room and then left.
Whitney kicked off her flats and curled her legs under her. She was dressed like all girls were these days—skinny jeans, a turquoise camisole long enough to show underneath a striped T-shirt, and a dark green hoodie. It was pretty much what Makayla wore, only because this girl was four years older, she had more of a figure. She looked at Nic with curious dark eyes.
“So tell me about Katie,” Nic said gently.
“She’s three years older than me. We haven’t gone to the same school for a long time. But she’s really smart. Every teacher that had her thinks I’m going to be as smart as her. But I’m not.”
“It sounds like she casts a long shadow.”
Whitney stared at Nic, a little puzzled, and then her brow smoothed out. “You mean is it hard being Katie Converse’s little sister?
Being asked to be a liaison to the Converses was a sign that someone in the Bureau wanted her to go further up the ladder. The thing was—Nic wasn’t sure she wanted to go. Not when Makayla was so young and she saw her so little as it was. The next step would be being named a field supervisor, but the Bureau had recently gotten serious about its five and out policy. Supervisors at a field office could only be there for five years before they were required to take an assignment at headquarters. If they didn’t, they had to step back down in rank or quit. There was no way Nic would take Makayla to DC. She couldn’t afford private schools, not on what the FBI paid, and she would never put her daughter in public school there.
As a black woman in the Bureau, Nic was in a double minority. They liked to trot her out as an example, but everything she did was also scrutinized. Nic’s achievements didn’t seem to add up as fast as a guy’s. At the same time, she sometimes thought that if she made a mistake, it would be broadcast on a loudspeaker all over the office.
Sometimes it felt like she had to be twice as good as a man to even compete—like Ginger Rogers, who had done everything Fred Astaire had, only backward and in high heels. Take the 2.5-minute shooting drills. Agents had to shoot while lying prone, from behind barricades, on their knees, reloading, switching hands, moving ever closer to the target. They were expected to get a score of 80, which meant they had to put 80 percent of their bullets in the kill zone.
Nicole’s last score had been a 97.
She pulled up to the Converses’ house. Now there were four camera crews out front. She parked in the narrow driveway behind Valerie’s red Volvo station wagon—she didn’t see Wayne’s blue BMW sedan—and ignored the shouted questions as she went up the walk.
Nic was here to interview Whitney before Valerie drove her to school. At first she had thought it was strange that the Converses wanted Whitney to continue attending her middle school, even if they were now driving her instead of having her take the bus. In the last day, though, Nic had begun to see the wisdom of it. If she stayed home, Whitney would be reminded of her sister’s absence every second. She would probably over-hear speculation that would crush whatever innocent conceptions she still harbored about the world and the way it worked. These hours spent at school might be her last chance to still be a child.
Valerie answered Nic’s knock. Each day, her face looked more haggard. “Wayne’s out with the searchers,” she said. “He can’t take sitting at home.” She called upstairs. “Whitney! The lady from the FBI is here to talk to you.”
Whitney bounced down the stairs. She was in that awkward stage of adolescence, springy and skinny, her limbs like rubber bands. Her hair was as dark as her sister’s was blonde. Wasn’t there a fairy tale about two sisters, one dark and one fair? Snow White and Rose Red, maybe that was it.
Valerie led them into the living room and then left.
Whitney kicked off her flats and curled her legs under her. She was dressed like all girls were these days—skinny jeans, a turquoise camisole long enough to show underneath a striped T-shirt, and a dark green hoodie. It was pretty much what Makayla wore, only because this girl was four years older, she had more of a figure. She looked at Nic with curious dark eyes.
“So tell me about Katie,” Nic said gently.
“She’s three years older than me. We haven’t gone to the same school for a long time. But she’s really smart. Every teacher that had her thinks I’m going to be as smart as her. But I’m not.”
“It sounds like she casts a long shadow.”
Whitney stared at Nic, a little puzzled, and then her brow smoothed out. “You mean is it hard being Katie Converse’s little sister?
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